


Monday's Child

by Davechicken



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:40:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monday's Child is fair of face...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monday's Child

_Monday's child is fair of face,_

It was the age of glam. Anyone who was anyone wore make-up. Even those who really shouldn't have, given their genetic heritage or aesthetic sense.

He wears the colours, lines and glitter as though it were made for him. No matter how thickly it was painted on, though, it never does anything but enhance his fine bone-structure, dazzle brilliantly over perfect skin. Eyes that were too dark, lashes too long, lips too full and throat so tender and begging to be bitten and held.

Sometimes the girls don't like him merely because he is much prettier than they are.

_Tuesday's child is full of grace,_

The dance-floor loves him. Though he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket if someone handed it to him, he certainly has the rhythm. He would dance as though the beat was his heart, hips swaying unrestrainedly as the music possessed him, whole.

Everything is a dance to him. Even rolling out of bed at an ungodly hour had him landing on his feet like a disgruntled, mussed, sleepy cat. He would stand like a god, walk like a tiger, roll and arch on the bed-sheets like a hemmed-in wave.

It was only when he ran he lost his grace.

_Wednesday's child is full of woe,_

You can see it in his eyes. He smiles, ever so broadly. Laughs; hands talking, teeth glinting. But always just that little bit too hard, too long, too much.

He chases happiness like a fleeing butterfly, whose wings flutter and destroy dreams in an eye-blink. Clings it to his chest until he finds it empty, bounding onto the next cloud in search of land.

Sometimes - at night - when alcohol, lips and blood flow freely one from the other, the echo of it chimes in his words like so many hollow voices.

Not for long, though. His tears are kept inside.

_Thursday's child has far to go,_

He's never really there, wherever it is. Not like everyone else seems to be. So far away from all that's normal, right and good.

There's always something more. Somewhere else to go, something else to do, someone else to push.

In his heart, there's always something he's missing.

When he was younger, he was always not quite. Not quite tall enough. Not quite strong enough. Not quite invisible enough. He had potential, they'd say, if he only pushed himself that little bit more; just think what he could achieve.

He still falls short, but this time the yard-stick has changed.

_Friday's child is loving and giving,_

Very few people give without taking. Such is the balance of things.

Love is easy to give, it seems, if the other wants and needs it. A few words, a concerned look, a touch. Sometimes he wonders if love is only ever in the object, if all the love he has is there because he sees it.

So very easy to do what someone wants, asks and needs. So very easy to dote, smile, think of someone unexpectedly.

Of course, the smiles are payment in kind. One only gives what one wants, just as one only hurts as one fears.

_Saturday's child works hard for its living,_

Sometimes, he does things he does not like. But this is just Compromise, which is a Good Thing. Sometimes he has to sacrifice one thing for another, but this is Life. Sometimes he pours blood, sweat and tears into a cauldron, sealed with a kiss. But this is merely Show.

It's a delicate juggling act of morals and needs, hopes and feelings. But he has to be flexible in order to get what he wants and he has to be determined. If something isn't worth the effort of working for, then it isn't worth having.

Sometimes he wonders what is.

_But the child that's born on the Sabbath day  
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay._

But none of that matters, of course, because he is happy. He's chosen as he has because it's for the - for his - best. Everything he does is for him and himself alone. Nothing else matters.

He smiles, often. Prettily. He laughs and winks and reassures you he's right.

And how can he not be? If nothing matters but being happy, then he must be.

If you ask him, he will tell you. Perhaps not his truth, but someone's. And he will tell you what he wants and you will hear what you want and no-one will be any the wiser.


End file.
